Terror

Who do you think you are
to transfer your grief
onto me?

I get it.

But the only way that you'll get
around it is not to give
it away, is not to get

rid of it, but to

live in it.
and to let me in
with you.

The Anti-Dream

It's not there,
the Anti-Dream.
You'll never find it.

Stop looking,
trying to see
behind your own eyes.

It lives in
the underside
of the horizon.

Fine. Chase it.
Seek blind numbness.
But that's all you'll do.

You dream of
the Anti-Dream,
of swimming in it.

Don't bother.
Don't bother it.
It sees you coming

and stretches
around your world,
away from the sky,

above thoughts,
below being,
and outside of time.

Because it knows you,
you cannot know
the Anti-Dream.

absent horizon

Erupt
grotesquely and
exquisitely.
The void is yours.

Blast torrential shards that
gore eternity.
Detonate
the eye of the storm.

Meticulously curate
this ideal specimen
of intricate terror,
ultimate and everlasting.

The void is yours.
Make it special.
Build your demon.
Give it a home.

Mutilate shadows
and butcher the dark.
Rip fury apart
and hang it

from hooks of wrath.

Inward Beam

Maimed heart,
your light shines the other way.
To others
you look dark.

Sore soul,
your torn fire aches
and waits alone
for what it has lost.

The child cries
as demons eat the world.
Tears water the earth
but only hollowness

grows
and grows
into this expanse
where the bruises dwell

and pray to rot.
Ripped and tender
edges sting,
afraid to heal,

refusing closure
in frantic hope.
Listening.
Listening hard.

The distance
feeds a fungus
where the child
needs to speak.

Cloaked in leprosy,
the perpetual roar swells,
incinerating the real
and glazing the right

(the only thing that matters)
that catches your
inward beam.
And I see it.

Tuning In

Every time
Turn me toward the
Campfire
Toward its crackle
And smoke and
Murmurs

Instead of the
Exhibition
Where the light
Makes me the spectacle
For us to learn
Nothing from.

Every time
Turn us toward the
Stars
Toward their distance
And history and
Brilliance

Instead of the
Plains
Where the glare
Bombards us, demanding
That we praise
Its glamour.

Every time
Remind me of the
Glow
Where I can see you
And you can hear me

Every single time.

Here

"... Anything could happen."

Feeling open

     Clean

     Renewed

With a deceiving

And unappealing

Appearance.

"Yer gotta start somewhere." -- Bartender

"... passport? Passport?" -- a thin twenty-thing "from New Zealand"

They're young.

Nobody ever knows that they're young.

But they all know that they were.

I know that I was.

Don't you?

A turn takes place

From knowing what we will be

To knowing what we were

But we're always so sure about it.

We see ourselves in others

But in the mirror

It's a different story

Until

Sometimes

We have one of those days

When we're done listening to our

     Past self telling our present self

     What our future self will be

And we just watch

As though we've never told ourselves

     Anything ever before

And we just listen

As though the Universe is right.

Compassion Inverted

Wings released and grubs abandoned, you finally set off again on that bright air and flat stone that had some time ago lost its secret sweetness but was nonetheless still that familiar, leaden challenge that now plummeted to... a thorn? No, to itself, pointing to its spindle, alleging, “This is you,” watching your softness puncture, recognising vinegar blood, and so seeing its own.

Disgust

I came home and saw myself in the mirror.
I understand if you don’t want to see me again.
I’m a failure of humanity,
Or perhaps a success.

Year Three Spelling Test

Number five.  Neighbour.  My neighbour used to think that she had a pet flying unicorn.  Neighbour.  Number six.  Umbrella.  My neighbour was very sad when she found out that her imaginary pet flying unicorn wasn't real; so, I got a horse, stuck an umbrella to its head and gave it to her to make her feel better.  Umbrella.  Number seven.  Transport.  My neighbour's favourite mode of transport now is via umbrellacorn.  Transport.

Fire

Only just green,
the new vine wide-eyedly sprouts,
bursting freely – ready to soak up the world –
from its nursery-for-one.

A tangible shadow,
sculpted by the wake of the
tiny, guiding torch light
that bore the nursery exit,

the vine trails that little flame
that senses which way is forward,
that sweetly burns and turns
only through kindling so dead

that it is unborn, unseen, until
subsumed, in the moment that a
wave peaks, by that luminous speck
before settling freshly aglow amongst

the rest of the now greener flesh
map of countless past frontiers
of revival – a comet’s tail – still
glimmering with always scarcer

reflected rays from the astral bead
up ahead that winds on, following its
kindling path, its pace imperceptibly,
gradually slowing as it unnoticeably

loses its breadth, as though the beats
of its heart have been left behind one
by one and – as mud never knows
thirst – without ever knowing hunger,

but still contendedly depending on
finding its fuel, which, to the left,
is not yet but soon will be prime
and must wait to become green,

while vapour departs the soil below 
and the lambent rondure slightly,
steadily, softly recedes into itself 
until even the very death that was

there to the left has faded, its echoes
long lost, leaving a blind and ready
silence that now touches then joins
then blazes then flows into the wake,

anointed, green, candescent, resting,
soon to be companioned by that
almost ripe, almost bare blot of
cosmic decay to the right once it

too sheds every last flake, not of
life, but of death; once it returns
to the pure blackness that sits at
the bottom of every one of your

outward breaths.

Only half done...

Contemporary Messiah

Perfectly in orbit and permeated with the grace of its own gravity, it welcomes every wave and particle that comes its way without exception, orders them all intricately, symphonically, and so reflects only the beauty and true greatness that the outside already had.

Form

Wide eyes jab my bright flag well into this manure mountain's peak, for what ever grew from a silver platter? A burdensome load is invariably a sack of diamonds. No redwood ever resented its soil.

Distant Tension

The ground shakes a little, and foolishness and wisdom look the same, but that is not because they wear identical masks; it is because you wear the cloak of uncertainty – uncertainty of yourself. Marry your soul and body, and see that it is not whether you choose foolishness or wisdom that is the problem, but that you just need to take off that stupid cloak!

Parasite

Twiggy is your saviour. Your unearned, bony “beauty” is not loved elsewhere, not that you seem to know what love even is. That’s right; gorge on the First World; let the white male’s American English glisten as it dribbles down the sides of your smiling, goofy chin, and smear it like the shitty mud (from the sties of the sows whose pleading squeals of desperation you gladly drown out with Lana De Rivative) that it is over your A-cup breasts of censorship and your librarian's clitoris of privacy, before taking pride in polishing your parrot-coloured regurgitation so that it will look great in your ivory tower. Revel in the filthy pleasure and egotistical obesity that you deny that your meticulously ornamented depravity brings. Only keep and only output that which feeds your bad faith, and snip out all threats. You pose as a delicate parasol, but you’re just a voracious

Before the War

The two were one wiggly, angular marble sculpture that really was immersed in darkness but felt saturated with sunbeam kisses, quite sure that these precious days were numbered.

Health Bomber

Outwardly flowing from the blinding core of this music fountain, liquid crystal fills a growing, intangible sphere, immersing and saturating all the blossoms of form without exception, seeping more quickly into some and more slowly into others.

Incubation

It seeped from its cocoon and whispered inaudibly, exhaling itself into manifestation, like an olden-day wife leading a husband to think of her ideas himself.

Lonely Gregory

He is not dead to us.  To us, he lives on in the company of two other old chaps: our spirituality and realised Oneness; in the company of both the boundless divinity of existence, and our enjoyment of the immersive wisdom that waits for us just past the quintuplets of sensory experience.  The three codgers get along, carrying on, relishing the cool touch of their tired, callused soles on the grey, smooth-worn, bare cement floor; of their stiff and crooked thoracic hunches on the damp, granular, vertical legacy of a passionless stonemason.  Around an absent campfire, the brotherly trio grin and chuckle with introspective, warm gazes that sometimes wander – through the tall, narrow spaces afforded by a militant row of unyielding ferrous solidity – with a patient yet unexpecting hope to see their key-bearer; or, rather, for their key-bearer to see them.  It has been so long.

Pardon?  His name was “Lonesome George”, not “Lonely Gregory”?

Whatever.

Feathered Goals

Eating what’s on my plate with invisible adults usually seems like such a dauntingly big deal.  I only managed half a potato and a few peas today.  There’s so much left over, as usual.  I found lots of things that I hadn’t put on my plate, and I mostly ate those with invisible children instead.  Berry picking seems so much less serious than planned meals do, or I have a detrimental habit of thinking so, at least.  Tomorrow I will remind myself that eating what’s on my plate with invisible adults really isn’t a big deal.  What’s currently on my plate is on my plate for no other reason than because I put it there because it’s what I want.  What a privilege.

“EQ”uilibrium II

The farce of prudence, with its expansive, undulating terrain of copious, minutial, consequence-laden neutron stars, is easily caustically bathed down to the essence of human existence by immediacy.